There and Back Again
by Arkenshield
Summary: "How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back? There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep...that have taken hold."
1. Fireworks

**Disclaimer: I claim no ownership over elements in this fan fiction which belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.**

He stared into the distance.

The damp evening dew settled on his face, his pallid skin was tamed and cold, and the last trace of warmth that was in him was ghosted away by the cold Spring wind which swept across a small hill that was Bag End.

Bilbo sat on the cold bench outside his hobbit hole. His little garden was full of colours, full of growth, full of life, and yet it was slowly blooming into decay in places where no unopened eyes could see nor untouched hearts could feel.

The sun had set; night was falling.

The pipe stem rested in all its dullness and irritating simplicity between his chapped lips. Never before had Old Toby smelled so beautifully stale, and never before had the lovely evening become so intolerably peaceful.

The frustrating perfection that was Hobbiton was slowly driving him into insanity, and Bilbo had never before felt so out of place in his own home.

For he had seen, and he had felt, and in all his heart: he knew he was no longer a Baggins of Bag End.

It was this very same day, exactly a year ago, when he bade a good morning to an inquisitive wizard in his grey, pointy hat. Gandalf was his name, one amongst many, of course. He made fireworks, and that was all it mattered.

Gandalf's fireworks were beautiful, full of colour, life, and vitality. The shapes that shot out from their tubes were always unexpected; their blooming likened thrilling journeys, and their dying shake spectators to their very cores.

Fireworks were short-lived; always so exhilarating, always at the moment, and yet equally always so ungraspable. When all the glimmers and shimmers died out, they vanished without a trace into the night the same way all dreams did.

Had it all been but a dream, then? For it left no trace, no reckoning, nothing but a dull ache in the heart: a longing that nostalgia could never articulate.

They say that each and every single one of The Wizard's fireworks told a tale from his many journeys. There were the Dwarf candles, the Elf fountains, the Goblin barkers, a red and gold Dragon, and of course, _There and Back Again_...

There, and back, again.

Bilbo stretched his lips into an unsmiling grin.

The company arrived to pay him a visit last week. Every dwarf was as loud, as cheerful, and as hungry as the time they first stepped through his door. It was only the mid-day of today that he bade them farewell; all ten were returning home, which, to many, was now Erebor.

Ah, Erebor... How distant the name sounded now, even in his mind. And yet, what seemed even further away than the Lonely Mountain itself was their quest to reclaim it.

The journey felt like it never happened; no traces, no signs. Gandalf's firework.

Strange...

Bilbo stuffed the pipe into his pocket and looked down at his hands.

For the dwarves came to visit him only so recently, and yet nothing was the same.

He spoke to them about the gold, and they spoke to him about the diamonds; all of them held conversations about various precious stones and metals that each brought back to their homes, and the prosperity which they brought and bought.

Dead.

The precious ores were nothing but dead stones.

All laid still and told no tales. For none had smelled the freshness of the rain in the forest, or felt the roughness of the pony reins that left one's hands red and raw at the end of the day. No gemstones spared the recognition of Beorn's welcoming house, none had met the courageous Bard of Lake Town, and none had faced the wrath of Dragon Smaug the Terrible.

None knew the songs of Imladris, none had ears for the secrets of the Misty Mountains, and none had fought with the terrible greediness of Kings.

None, except for one: The Arkenstone.

The Arkenstone was the most beautiful of them all. The radiance of the Heart of the Mountain was like a molten pool of all the hues of every gemstone within Erebor. The Arkenstone was the sole diamond that was alive, and yet nobody spoke of it.

Nobody spoke of it, for the Heart was now beating atop the chest of one who was _the journey_, one whom his nostalgia owed everything to, one who was the heart of the company and yet whose own heart had ceased to beat. One who was the tale.

Him.

Bilbo leaned back into the cold, lifeless bench, and stared up into the night's sky. He had spent most part of the dwarves's visit at this exact spot on this bench. He knew he had been a terrible host, well, not much worse from the first time he greeted them, truth be told. He kept the pantry filled with food, and hoped for the best that his absence had not mattered much to his guests. It was important he stayed here and wait, because one guest had yet to arrive...

He was always late, so Bilbo sat and wait, and he was still waiting, now.

He only wanted to be the first one to greet him.

When he told the dwarves this, they all exchanged looks and politely reminded him that ten was all there was left of the company, but a hobbit chose what he heard.

...A small flame of a single candle flickered in the dark.

_He_ was late, and that was all. That was why he was still not here, and that was why Bilbo had to keep waiting.

It was cold. Firework.

Thorin...

The hobbit reached his hand into a pocket of his jacket absentmindedly, and something smooth and cold caught the tip of his fingers. Bilbo's brows knitted, and he brought it out.

The ring was golden, smooth, and as equally intoxicating as it was the day he picked it up from the floor of Gollum's cave.

Memories flushed in. The firework died, but it had bloomed.

It was not a dream. He had been to Gollum's cave, and everywhere else all the same.

_Can you promise that I will come back?_

_No. And if you do, you will never be the same_.

How foolish the question seemed, now.

Bilbo clenched his fist tight around the ring until it hurt, bit his chapped lips until they bled, and yet he still could not stop a single bead of diamond from burning its way down his cheek.

For as much as Bilbo was restless, Thorin Oakenshield would not be coming today, nor any other day.

He was never returning.

There was no coming back, no returning. There was no firework that bloomed and did not die.

There was no There and Back Again.


	2. The Golden Harp and the Fiddles

**A second chapter.**

* * *

Bilbo sat in his study.

The window was left opened and the cold winter breeze flushed in, sending shivers through the frail form of the room's sole occupant. Yet, the hobbit made no effort to render a change.

It was a reminder of those cold days atop the mountains where there were no roofs to sleep under, where his limbs froze from the ice, and yet his heart had never been so warm.

For it was amongst his... companions, that he sat, huddled.

Bilbo had long come to admit that he would never again find peace in this peaceful land. As of late, he had been spending hours and hours poring over old maps; he knew Frodo thought him peculiar - odd, his nephew would say, and he lived up proudly to it.

Almost sixty years had gone by, and there had never been a night when he did not retire to bed without clutching an old piece of parchment against his chest. Bilbo had tried to lull himself to sleep without it, but the action only proved to be the most ineffective, for he would toss and turn in his bed with sweat pouring all over him; he was overtaken by nightmares which haunted him in his wake. Only when the yellowed piece of parchment was retrieved, pressed tight against his heart, would he let out a sigh of relieve, of contentment, and sleep would at last overcome him.

It was a sketch of himself.

A quill hovered above an empty page of a red leather-bound book. Bilbo paused for a moment to steady his shaky hand, pinned his quill down, and began to write.

* * *

"Far over the Misty Mountains cold,

To a mountain steep, and the golden halls.

The mines restored, the throne reclaimed,

Yet naught was crowned, in Durin's name.  
~

The winds were howling, through empty rooms,

The fire ceased burning, where death once loomed.

Yet silence crept, the songs no more,

No harps nor fiddles, not in Erebor.  
~

Sleep well, my friends, the night had passed.

You all deserve your rest at last.

Long battles fought, a war is won.

Heed not the cries, the night's long gone.  
~

The quest mere memories, the journey a dream.

We made our peace, all faults redeemed.

Last battle fought, last words declared.

Goodbye dear friends, it's time I fare."

* * *

It seemed like only yesterday, that this same tune echoed through these rooms. The words were full of hope and yearning that they brought a spark to his heart, and ignited the flames that were in him. It was this song, with the lyrics of the dwarves, which opened his eyes, woken his imaginations, and brought him to life.

The company had paid him a visit once, exactly a year after their journey began; only those who were on time, of course. They played and sang a few merry songs, but nobody spoke of The Misty Mountains. Bilbo did not ask, he knew why; the song does not begin unless the first thrum of the golden harp is heard, and there was no harp. _He_ was late, as always, and the music would not sound nice without the two fiddles to accompany it anyway.

"What's this?"

Bilbo's hand was immediately at his belt as the sound of the voice woke him from his reverie. By Aulë! Thorin will surely scold him for not being on guard again!

A second later, however, the old hobbit realized that it was only Frodo bending over his shoulder who had spoken, and that it had been over half a century that he had any real need to keep Sting by his side.

And Thorin...

"That is private." He snapped, and snatched the precious piece of sketch back as his heart fell. "Keep your sticky paws off. It's not ready yet."

"Humph!" Frodo pretended to be crossed, but smiled nevertheless. "Not ready for what?"

The old hobbit's hand ghosted over the cover of the red leather bound book which he had just closed. His gaze tore through the empty space in front of him. Bilbo sighed.

"Reading."


	3. The Tale

_Many years ago..._

"Story, uncle Bilbo! Tell a story, please!" The little hobbit cooed and bounced excitedly in his seat.

"Oh, but I've told you _all_ the stories from_ all_ the story books I have in Bag End already!" The older hobbit protested but smiled nevertheless.

"Just one more, please, make one yourself!"

Bilbo chuckled and sat his mug of ale down by the side table, before proceeding to gather his nephew - well, Frodo was not exactly his nephew, but for the sake of simplicity, let's just stick with it - onto his lap.

Bilbo's eyes travelled to the fire burning in the hearth as he mulled over the thought pensively.

"In a hole in there ground..." He began, rather unsure, shuffling slightly on the couch with little Frodo on one knee,"There lived a hobbit."

"Was that hobbit you, uncle?"

"Well, as a matter of fact laddie... You asked for a story, so this is actually...- Ah... Yes, yes, what an excellent guess, Frodo! Yes, indeed, it was me," He gave up and smiled dryly, "The most respectable hobbit in all of the Shire!"

"And you lived in a Baggins!"

"No, Frodo. _Bag End_. Bilbo Baggins lived in Bag End." He corrected, "Just like you and I do now."

They were sitting quite comfortably by the fire in the living room. Frodo had a cup of hot chocolate in one hand and a dried-fruit muffin in the other, and he was balancing rather dangerously on Bilbo's knee a moment ago before the older hobbit decided to pull him back so Frodo's head was leaning against his chest.

"And what happened to the Baggins in a _B-aag-IN_, uncle?" Frodo cooed, craning his neck to look up so his cerulean eyes bore into Bilbo's brown ones, "Did he go fight a dragon like the prince the story-book did?"

The older hobbit opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it and closed his mouth again.

"Well, yes. He did go fight a dragon like the prince did. As a matter of fact, the prince went with him...- Or rather he went with the prince, or actually...-" Bilbo started to ramble on again, but it seemed the little hobbit was not in a mood for slow stories tonight.

"So were there dwarves, uncle?" Frodo piped up, "Like the seven dwarves, and were there the poisoned apple and the magic needle? And those ugly big things with pointy-" The boy inhaled sharply to catch his breath, "-Ears? And wizards and...-"

"Now, hold on, little one...-"

"-And did you pull a sword out of a stone?"

"Are you going to listen to the story or not, Frodo?"

"Yes, uncle Bilbo, but...-"

"Then be a good boy and sit quietly while I tell it to you." Bilbo stroked his nephew's hair slowly, "There is no fun knowing what happens at the end before the story starts, is there?"

"No, uncle Bilbo."

"Right, then." Bilbo drew in a breath "The hobbit was the most respectable hobbit in the Shire, he had never had any adventures or did anything unexpected."

"Sounds like you." Frodo said, happily.

"Exactly, Frodo. But quite by chance, and... The will of a wizard, fate decided he would become part of a rather unexpected journey."

Bilbo gazed around the room, letting the memories of that very day wash over him. A distant music echoed softly as Bilbo's eyes glazed over.

_Blunt the knives, bend the forks!_

_Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_

The hobbit shook himself out of his reverie.

"It all began with a wandering wizard." Bilbo recollected fondly, "His name was Gandalf, and he made very very beautiful fireworks."

Indeed, it almost felt like telling a tale. It had been many years since the wizard paid him a visit. All seemed so distant now, and Gandalf may have become but a character in this tale of dream.

_You will have a tale or two to tell when you come back_.

Right he was, and not a dream.

Bilbo decided to skip over certain details that would surely bore the little one, and capitalized on the more fantastical ones.

"It was a _good_ morning, simple as that. The wizard came to Bag End when the hobbit was sitting outside, smoking his pipe...-"

"The best of Old Toby?"

"Yes, the best of Old Toby. Then, they had a nice little chat together, and the wizard declared that he would bring a few, er...- friends, over for supper, and that the hobbit would very much enjoy their company."

Frodo was now perking his little pointy ears up, which was a sign that he was listening intently.

"So that evening, the hobbit made a _huge_ supper," He exaggerated with his arms, "Because who would have come knocking on his newly painted green door if not as many as twelve dwarves!"

"Twelve!" Frodo gasped.

"Yes, twelve dwarves, and a wizard. - In fact, given how much Bombur had had to eat, he probably could have been counted as three. - They drank and they ate merrily until the pantry was empty, and they sang cheerful songs, but suddenly... There was another knock on the door!"

"The prince!" Frodo beamed.

"Exactly, Frodo! It was none other but the mighty dwarf prince of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield himself."

"_Owkin-cheeld_?" The little hobbit knitted his brows, obviously not approving that such name should befit a great prince, "What a funny name!"

"Yes, yes, the hobbit thought it was funny too when he first heard it," Said Bilbo, feeling a strange pang of painful chill in his chest.

_So... This is the hobbit?_

"And do you know why he is called that, my dear Frodo?"

"No, why?"

"It began long ago in a land far away to the East, in the City of Erebor." Bilbo sighed, "Ah, Frodo, Erebor, built deep within the mountain itself. The beauty of this fortress city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth in precious gems hue from rock and it great sheaths of gold running like rivers through stone. The King Under the Mountain was Thror, grandfather of Thorin Oakenshield."

Frodo's mouth formed a perfect 'O', his eyes wide as the images of the beauty of Erebor was drawn.

"But alas! The years of peace and plenty was not to last, for a dragon came."

"Dragon!"

"'Smaug the Terrible' was his name, although the creature did very much prefer the title 'Smaug the Magnificent'," Bilbo muttered, "The beautiful city was razed to the ground, the dwarves of Erebor fled, and the Arkenstone was lost."

"The Arkenstone?"

"Yes, the Arkenstone was the King's jewel, Thror's most beloved precious stone. Smaug slid into the mountain and hid the Arkenstone away in safety where he was sure nobody would find it."

Frodo gave a pout.

"So what happened to the dwarves and prince _Owkin-cheeld_, then?"

"Ah...The prince and his people travelled to reclaim Moria, another dwarven stronghold", Bilbo thought it best to leave out the hardship of their years of wandering and the gruesome details, "But the enemy got there first, and King Thror was killed by the fearsome pale orc who went by the name of 'Azog, the Defiler'."

Frodo gave a small shudder and clutched onto Bilbo's vest with his icing-covered hand.

"But being the great warrior that Thorin was, The young prince stood up against the pale orc, wielding nothing but an oaken branch," Bilbo breathed, remembering the haunted, pale face of the orc on that fateful night when he raised his mace, towering over Thorin, "And that was how he earned his title, for Azog the defiler was defeated."

In Bilbo's version of the story, of course...

"Were you and him friends?"

"I'm sorry?" Bilbo asked automatically as he was broken out of his reverie.

"You and him, prince Thorin."

"Ahh..." The older hobbit droned, wincing as he felt again the icy pain that clutched his heart, "This was where I came in, for the thirteen dwarves were on a quest to reclaim the city of Erebor."

"Uh huh...So you were friends, then?"

"They needed a... specialist, to help them on their quest, and it is not good manner to deny someone asking for a small favour, isn't that right, Frodo?"

"Yes, I helped Old Gaffer out with his gardening the other day because he was getting tired." Frodo beamed.

"That's a good lad...-"

"And I used my hanky to wipe some blood from Fatty Bolger's nose too! He put his finger in too far..."

Bilbo winced.

"You better show me that pocket handkerchief once we finish our story telling, little one." The older hobbit warned, and Frodo had enough decency to look ashamed.

"So off we went. The journey was rough, and I learnt to live without my pocket handkerchiefs. Horse hair was not the most pleasant thing, I'm telling you, laddie."

Frodo giggled.

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door." He sighed, his eyes tracing the vastness of the room as if expecting there to be more figures filling it up, "You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

But Frodo was growing impatient.

"And your sword, uncle Bilbo? How did you get your sword?"

"Sting!" Bilbo laughed, "I did not quite pull it out of a stone like the prince did, Frodo. In fact, it was not a sword at all... More of a letter opener, really." The older hobbit finished and laughed quietly at his own joke.

The tale spun on, as it should, and Frodo's eyes gradually became bigger as Bilbo took them through the trolls' hoards and Rivendell, Radagast's Rhosgobel rabbits and the Goblin Town, the eagle rescue and Beorn's house, he even included the part with the cruel Elven King and the floating barrels!

"And with deadly precision," Bilbo whispered, one arm around Frodo and the other gesturing up to the empty ceiling, "Bard of Lake-town drew the taut string of his bow and let go! The last arrow from his quiver sailed up... Up...- UP into the air and hit the bad dragon Smaug RIGHT in his chest where his heart was!"

Frodo's mouth hung open, his large, blue eyes were wide as the little hobbit painted his own vivid images on the ceiling of Bag End.

"And Smaug...-" The young one whispered as if frightened he would reawaken the dragon, "He's _dead_, isn't he?"

"Yes," Bilbo nodded firmly, "Gone was the peril that had haunted The Lonely Mountain for over a hundred years."

"And that's it?" Frodo's voice was high and shrill, his little brows pulled together.

"That's what?"

"Is that the end of the story?"

Bilbo's hand that was stroking his nephew's dark hair suddenly halted. The older hobbit's jaws were set, as his eyes stared dumbly into the fireplace.

Outside, cicadas chirped. Frodo fidgeted on his lap.

"I'm afraid it is, lad." He finally said.

"That's not fun!" The little hobbit pouted, looking up at him, "He hadn't saved the princess yet."

But the older hobbit was silent, and it did not take long for Frodo to realise that something was wrong.

"Uncle?"

"Please..." Bilbo's voice trembled, and the old hobbit looked away, never before having felt so frail, "Don't make me..."

He slowly drew in a breath with a shudder. Bilbo's eyes travelled to the mantelpiece, where a neatly folded doily sat covered in dust. The flames in the hearth danced in his eyes, and Bilbo Baggins suddenly felt angry that doilies were full of holes.

"No, that's not the end, Frodo." He said quietly after a moment, turning back to the little one in his lap and giving him a forced smile. "For even though the dragon Smaug perished, a greater evil lay beneath the mountain."

The little hobbit stared back up at him with his cerulean blue eyes; Bilbo continued.

"Its name was _Greed_, Frodo." He whispered and Frodo shuddered, "The darkest enemy of the Third Age."

"_Greed_ came at night," Bilbo said, "When every soul was deep in slumber. _Greed_ was dark and foul and as silent as dead winds, and it crept through windows and slid through cracks in doors without knocking. It hovered like a great black shadow over the sleeping forms of the dwarves, and with a terrible howl..." He stared unseeing into the fireplace, "It swooshed down took the prince hostage!"

Frodo gave a little uncomfortable cry.

"It devoured him," Bilbo's eyes were dark, staring away, "It ate him hollow from the inside; his voice cried out silence, his eyes wept empty tears, and he bled dry without blood. Everybody saw it but him, everybody tried to talk to the _Greed_, we asked and begged and threatened it to go away, but the devil would not relent. At last, the prince I once knew and loved stumbled into madness."

Frodo was quiet, his little hands fisting the hem of Bilbo's shirt as he looked at the sorrow that was painted on his uncle's face.

"A war broke out," Bilbo whispered, "All because of _Greed_. All because the hobbit took away the one treasure the prince coveted, the Arkenstone, and gave it to his enemy."

Frodo let out a gasp.

"The prince was wrong, though, Frodo, for the Elven King and Bard were not his enemy," Bilbo swallowed, "His greatest nemesis was himself, and many, too many fell in that war..."

All fell silent again, saved for the fire crackling in the hearth.

"So... What happened?" Frodo finally asked in a small voice, his eyes roaming Bilbo's feature looked as if they did not quite understand. "Did you... Did you save the prince?"

For a while, Bilbo did not reply. Finally, however, the old and weary hobbit let out a sigh and smiled down at his nephew.

"Yes I did, little one, I did. Although not after the prince came to realise that he had lost his two most precious gems."

"But you gave the Arkenstone...-"

"Not that blasphemous, useless rock!" Bilbo cried out angrily, but then calmed down, "No, Frodo. The prince had had these two pieces of treasure with him the whole time. Only he did not realise how precious they were to him until the slipped away from his fingers."

Before his eyes, he could see them standing together, their hair fluttering in the wind and swords readied in their hands. Determination was etched deep in their eyes as they fought unrelentingly, taking down each and every one of the enemy who dared to stray near the King Under the Mountain.

Their uncle.

"They tried to defend him," Bilbo's voice cracked and he swallowed down the knot that choked him, "The brave souls, pierced with dozens and dozens of arrows, and yet they stood tall, side by side until the very end." Hot tears were prickling his eyes, "Until the last enemy fell."

He could see them, covered in dirt and soot and blood. Their youthful faces were peaceful, knowing they had protected that which they treasured most to the best of their ability. Thorin's nephews lay in each other's arms, not parting even in death.

He heard a little sob and, looking down, Bilbo saw tears streaming down the face of his little hobbit.

"I'm sorry, Frodo." He winced, "I only...-"

But Frodo shook his head, and breathed in to regain his breath.

"No, uncle. You are crying. You shouldn't cry."

The small pudgy hand came up to Bilbo's face, and it was only then that the older hobbit felt the warm tears trickling down his cheeks. He held his breath as Frodo brushed his tears away. The little hobbit smiled.

"There, there, uncle Bilbo. Don't cry," He said, "The prince would not want to see you cry. You helped save him and chased _Greed_ away, and then he became a great King in the end, did he not?"

_'There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended into measure." __Said Thorin, his bloodied hand coming up to stroke Bilbo's face slowly, _"If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!'

His last defense shattered and Bilbo choked. He bent down to scoop up his own little nephew and cradled him tight against his chest.

"Yes, yes he did!" The older hobbit sobbed, his body trembling, "He, and his nephews, they- they were going to sail across the Great Sea, Frodo. To the mansion of Aulë, their...- Their Maker...-"

Frodo's buried his face into Bilbo's chest, and his little hand came up to gently pat his uncle's copper-coloured curls.

"And they lived happily ever after?" The little hobbit asked.

Bilbo heaved a heavy breath and tugged Frodo to him closer than ever.

"Yes," He sighed, "Happily ever after, and after..."


End file.
